


Braids of Rose and Violet

by WaywardSpark



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Based off recent promo pictures, Christmas Fluff, F/F, Hoopkins, Johnlock mirrors, Sappho - Freeform, Written pre-season 4 with no knowledge of Hopkin's first name or characterisation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 23:56:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9045116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardSpark/pseuds/WaywardSpark
Summary: "Molly Hooper, are you asking me out?"    Molly gasped out a nervous laugh. "I've only just met you."    "You're avoiding the question." Hopkins was smiling knowingly, her eyes sparkling and staring straight through Molly. She blushed.    "No - not really."





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's Christmas. Why the heck not.

Working at Christmas was nothing new to Molly Hooper.

Granted, she'd rather be visiting family or friends or even just staying at home, sat in front of the telly with Toby purring away on her lap, but still. Work was good. Work was routine. Work was normal, now that Sherlock was no longer rushing in like a tornado, demanding spare body parts for some experiment or other to quell his boredom. John was back in 221b now. That meant he was generally...otherwise occupied, when he would have previously been suffering from extreme ennui and loneliness and resorting to taking some poor (dead) bloke's ear or blood for his experiment. Whether Molly should take 'otherwise occupied' as a euphemism or not, she wasn't sure she wanted to know. Of course, she was happy for him. For them both. It was actually very relieving when she came into the lab one day, helping the two men with a murder case, to find that the atmosphere had changed. It was happier, lighter. Less stifling than constantly being surrounded by melancholy pining from both parties, as it had been for the past six or so years. The two men were smiling and joking and free to stand as close to each other and touch each other as much as they pleased; a hand on the shoulder, a kiss on the forehead when one (usually Sherlock - no, always Sherlock) had a sudden breakthrough that affected whatever they were working on. So she smiled at them extra brightly and sincerely as they left. Sherlock knew what it was for. John probably didn't notice. 

So now here she was, sat bored at the lab's computer as it loaded up line after line of information about a domestic murder victim. Female. Late 40's. Poisoned. Arsenic traces in stomach content... 

Then a woman walked in.

Molly glanced up from her computer, to see if she recognised the woman. She looked taller than Molly, and professional, with a long beige coat and black trousers and black hair tied back into a long, shiny ponytail, heels clicking satisfyingly on the cold, hard floor. She couldn't place her as someone authorised to be here. Yet here she was, bold as brass, walking straight towards the door that led to where the bodies were kept like she owned the place. 

"Excuse me, Miss?" Molly piped up from behind the computer. The woman stopped and turned around. Christ, she was pretty. Sharp cheekbones, dark eyes, tanned skin, makeup brushed on in shades of browns and golds with perfectionist precision, lacking in evidence that it had suffered in the harsh winds and heavy rain of the day. Her eyes discreetly and swiftly looked Molly up and down, out of curiosity more than anything. The woman seemed friendly, in fact, as she smiled and replied, "I'm sorry, I didn't see you there. I need to go in there for a bit." 

Molly cleared her throat, stood up and walked towards the woman. "Do you have permission to be here? I don't think I've seen you here before."

"I haven't seen you here either. Do you come here often?" The woman smirked playfully, and Molly felt heat rise up to her cheeks. "Detective Inspector Hopkins, of Scotland Yard." Hopkins held out a hand, which Molly shook, after discreetly wiping her hand on her lab coat.

"Molly Hooper, forensic pathologist." 

"Good to meet you, Molly Hooper." The Detective Inspector smiled warmly. "I've only been here a couple of times before. Must have missed you."

"Are you new, then? At Scotland Yard."

"Newly qualified Detective Inspector. Rather exciting for me. Never got to go to morgues as a Serjeant." 

"It's nothing special, really. Lot's of dead people. High probability of getting haunted. You get used to it after a while."

Hopkins chuckled warmly and Molly couldn't help but echo it with a smile. The detective's laughter came to a natural stop, then she exhaled. "Well, best be off. I'm sure I'll see you again, Molly Hooper - "

"Wait!" Shit. Stupid. "I mean, I can help you. You're here for a...body." Of course she is. She's in a bloody mortuary. 

Hopkins seemed to consider this for a second then shrugged. "Sure. Why not. What have you got on Allison Bradbury?"

"I was just doing her file now."

"Gosh, what a coincidence."

The universe is rarely so lazy, Molly thought with fondness as that quote came to mind. Not that she herself believed it. Quite often the universe was lazy enough to allow for things such as chance and luck.

Molly sat down at her computer and Hopkins leant over her, looking at the screen. Molly forced herself to breathe and ignore the fact that she could smell the detective's perfume. I was sweet and musky and probably more expensive than any perfume Molly would buy. 

"48 years old. No children. Recently divorced."

"Yes, we're going to interview the ex-husband tomorrow. Any other information you picked up?"

"Uh- she got poisoned through her food. BLT sandwich, most likely - wait, you're interviewing her tomorrow?!" Molly looked up from her computer in bewilderment.

Hopkins nodded. "Yeah, so?"

"It's Christmas tomorrow! You can't work on Christmas day!"

"Tell that to the criminal classes," Hopkins replied coolly. "It's not for long, though. We just have to get through a few things in the morning then we can go home."

"To friends and family and stuff."

"Yeah. Well, friends maybe. Family, not so much."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Molly paused. "So you don't have family nearby?"

"All the way down in Sussex. Besides, I'm nearly always too busy with The Job to visit them." Something about the way Hopkins said "the job" made it seem like they would begin with capitals. 

"Just friends, then? No...boyfriend?" Molly attempted to ask this casually. Hopkins laughed, "Christ no. Ugh. I'm not likely to swing in that direction anytime soon."

Oh. Oh! "You have a girlfriend, then?" When Hopkins gave her a strange look, she immediately stammered. "Which is fine, by the way - "

"Molly Hooper, are you asking me out?"

Molly gasped out a nervous laugh. "I've only just met you."

"You're avoiding the question." Hopkins was smiling knowingly, her eyes sparkling and staring straight through Molly. She blushed.

"No - not really."

"Oh. Good. Because I'm going to assume that you are in fact single and seeing as you two are working on Christmas eve, you have no commitments tomorrow. And no offence, but you have several stray cat hairs on your Christmas jumper, which is very nice and festive, by the way." Molly felt herself blushing further as she brushed herself down. "So I'm guessing you're only company tomorrow is going to be your cat, unless you accept my invitation to the Scotland Yard Loners' Christmas Party."

"I - I - "

"Everyone working at the Yard without prior engagements will be there - hence the 'loners' - including that friend of yours - Graham?"

"Greg."

"So you'll come?" 

Molly gaped for a bit then sighed. "Fine. Yes. Just don't go around insulting my cat. I only have the one. I'm hardly the crazy cat lady."

"Oh, don't worry, I have a cat too. Her name's Evie."

"Oh, nice." 

Hopkins stood up. "Thank you very much for your assistance, Molly. Now, if you'll excuse me I'll be with Allison."

"Okay." Molly gave a small smile. 

"Party starts tomorrow at 8. My house." Hopkins made her way through the door. Just before it closed, Molly called her back, "Hopkins?"

The detective turned back, her head poking from behind the door and grinning. "Yeeesssss?"

"What's your address? And - uh - your name? First name." Molly tucked a stray hair behind one ear. 

Hopkins smiled. "My name's Charlotte Hopkins. Come to 57A Irving Street." She winked. "Merry Christmas." Then she escaped into the next room.

Charlotte Hopkins. 

Molly exhaled unsteadily, shook her head, then returned to the computer, mind swimming with memories of the pressure of one perfumed body leaning over hers and the electric jolt she felt when dark, made up eyes met pale blue as the two women talked.

~

The taxi pulled up outside 57 Irving Street at ten past eight. From where Molly was standing, the building wasn't entirely unimpressive. It seemed relatively big and expensive for what she suspected a detective inspector was able to afford. But she could hear music and laughter from inside the building, symptom of some Christmas party or other, whether it was the detective's or not. So she double checked the smudged address scrawled onto the back of her hand (she couldn't find any paper) then, reassured, paid the taxi driver and let it leave while she rang the doorbell for 57D. 

There was a pause, a brief moment of panic that Molly had gotten the wrong place, then lo and behold, the detective opened the door, greeting her with a - lopsided yet relieved - dark pink smile. 

"Molly Hooper!" she exclaimed, going in to hug her. "I was starting to wonder if my invitation was wasted on you." Charlotte wrapped her arms around Molly suddenly, causing her to make a surprised 'oof!' sound as again, the scent of Hopkins' perfume hit her, along with the tell-tale odour of alcohol.

"Sorry, the traffic was hell. Have you been drinking?"

"What, is a girl not allowed to enjoy herself on Christmas day? Come in, by the way." The two women entered the building, Molly closing the door behind her, and the detective led her up a staircase to a door on the top floor just to the right of the stairs, the sounds of mirthful chatter and background music pouring out into the hall. Hopkins entered the crowded flat first and Molly entered nervously soon after, undoing her coat zip. 

"Can I take that?" Charlotte gestured to the coat. Molly handed the coat over and the detective added, "You look good by the way, Molly. You brush up nicely when you're not in the lab coat. Not that you looked totally hideous in it."

"Oh, uh, thanks? You too." Molly called back, blushing as the detective left the living room with her coat. Molly wasn't lying. Charlotte looked very good in her slightly low cut red dress (which she most certainly didn't glance at as they greeted each other outside) and the black leather jacket she wore over the top. Her make-up was redone, this time with dark pink lipstick and bold, black eyeliner forming a sharp, almost lethal point at the outer corners of her eyes. Quite honestly, it made Molly feel all the more self-conscious about her amateurishly painted on red lipstick and the dress she reserved for special occasions that made her feel she was trying too hard - the black one with outlines of silver that she had worn to John and Sherlock's disaster of a Christmas party all those years ago.

_Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts._

That comment had stung. It may have been slightly true in the context of her hopeless crush on the man. Not tonight, though. Though honestly, Molly couldn't help but wonder if she had a habit of getting extreme crushes on people with sharp cheekbones and impeccable dress sense within a day of meeting them. 

Charlotte Hopkins returned with a grin. 

"C'mon. Let's get you to the drinks table. You look nervous and I feel lonely for being the only one who is drinking."

"Who said I'm nervous?"

"Literally everything about your body language." Hopkins handed Molly a glass of red wine. "As a detective whose job commonly involves hanging around criminal suspects, it is my duty to know when a suspect is agitated or wary during an interview."

Molly took a sip of the wine. "I'd make a terrible criminal," she mused. "I'd break down the moment a police officer came into contact with me."

"Well, you're already surrounded by dead bodies on a daily basis," Charlotte grinned. "No one'd notice if there was one more on a slab than usual."

"Not even you?" smiled Molly.

"Molly Hooper, I have known you for a grand total of twenty-four hours an' I can already tell that you're not capable of hurting a living soul." Molly blushed into the wine glass. "Now drink up. We're going mingling soon and I need you drunk enough to act sociable."

Molly downed the rest of the wine, then replied, "I can be sociable enough without alcohol."

"Really, what's that like? Never could. The majority of my interactions are forced until I get a drink inside me. Then lo and behold, I'm Charlotte the sociable."

"You didn't seem force yesterday," said Molly softly.

"You're a rare exception, it seems. Now come on, let me introduce you to some people." Charlotte took Molly by the wrist and led her through the crowds of people.

"They won't mind I'm here? And I don't work with you?"

"You kidding? They'll be delighted to meet you."

"Most people are bored by me."

"I'm not bored by you." Charlotte glanced back quickly, then let go of Molly's wrist and joined in with a circle of five or so Scotland Yard officers. "Everyone! This is Molly Hooper. She works with dead people."

For over an hour, Charlotte dragged Molly around the room, introducing her to co-worker after co-worker while Molly got tipsier and tipsier. People told anecdotes about their work and their families and Molly listened and laughed along. She even got to hear some interesting tales about her new acquaintance.

"...and then she just hit him over the head with a stapler!"

"Really?" Molly giggled glancing over at Charlotte, who shrugged proudly.

"I have the unfortunate habit of beating up escaping criminals with whatever objects are lying around."

"So what happened next?"

"He got knocked out," a serjeant supplied in, and Molly's eyebrows climbed towards her hairline. "Got arrested and locked up for twenty years."

"That's impressive." To Molly's delight, it seemed that the detective inspector was just as susceptible to blushing as she was, as she turned a bright pink at Molly's praise.

"'S nothing, really."

"I mean it. You're like...a superhero or something." Molly vaguely remembered watching a film with her niece that featured a woman who escaped her interrogation by beating all the men up in the room despite still being tied up to her chair and wearing an inconveniently tight black dress that unrealistically had room for the woman-spy to move. She was reminded irresistibly of her through Hopkins' tales.

Charlotte stared at Molly for a brief moment, a smile playing at her lips, which Molly responded to in kind, then she announced to the group, "I'm going to get some fresh air. Anyone care to join me?"

Molly nodded, the heat of a crowded room getting to her and followed as she walked through the house to a room in the back. Molly walked behind Charlotte through an opened door at the back of the flat, which led to a bedroom that had its own balcony attached to it. Charlotte glanced back as she opened the doors, and must have seen Molly's face, because she explained, "the landlord is my cousin. He owed me, so he let me have these rooms cheap."

"How did he owe you?" The cold December air hit Molly's bare arms and bit at her face. She shuddered and folded her arms close to her chest.

"Hey, are you cold?" Charlotte asked.

"I'm fine," Molly said politely, teeth chattering.

"Bullshit. Here, have my jacket." Charlotte took off her leather jacket, exposing her arms and shoulders that weren't covered by the straps on her dress, and handed it to Molly.

"No, it's okay, I can get my coat - "

"I insist," Charlotte gestured with the hand holding the jacket. "You're making me feel guilty."

Molly eyed the clothing wearily, then sighed and took it. "What about you? Won't you be cold?" She put the jacket on and suppressed the sigh of contentment that came from her body temperature warming up a little. The jacket was still warm from Charlotte's body heat and smelled slightly of the same addictive perfume from earlier.

"Me? No. Don't feel the cold. I have zero...cold feelings. Besides, you're my guest, and I want you to feel welcome."

"Oh," Molly gave a small, shy smile. "Thank you."

Charlotte smiled back, eyes sparkling in the dim lights of London. "Anyway, my cousin. That's who we were talking about before, right?"

"Yeah, what happened?"

" He stole a TV once as a teenager," Charlotte said casually, leaning her forearms against the railings of the balcony. "I caught him in the act, but I didn't report it to the police. So I messed with the evidence and placed the TV in someone else's flat - a neighbour of ours that we didn't particularly like. Complete bigot, he was. And drunk the majority of the time. So he couldn't remember if he actually did steal it. Got sent to prison."

"And here you are now, working for Scotland Yard," Molly smiled. "Did you ever get caught?"

"You think I'd still have this job if someone at the Yard knew about it?" Charlotte grinned. "Come to think of it, it probably wasn't the best idea telling you."

"Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. The drinks are all going to my head. I'll probably forget about it in the morning."

"Good." The woman turned to look out at the view, and Molly followed her gaze, staring down at the street lights and the cars zooming in the cracks between each building, the sirens wailing in the distance some far away accident that simply did not matter. Charlotte sighed. "I love London."

"Yeah, me too."

"When you have my job, Molly, there are moments when you think the world has gone to shit. Quite a few moments, 'cause all the time you're dealing with murders. Burglary. Kidnapping. But I like the world from here. The balcony. It's quieter. Peacefuller."

"Peacefuller?" Molly repeated, amused.

"Whatever. The point I'm trying to make is - actually, I'm not sure what my point is. My point is that I...like balconies?"

Molly burst into a fit of giggles. "How poetic."

"Hey," Charlotte slapped her lightly on the forearm. "I'll have you know that I studied English Lit at A-level."

"Congratulations."

"I am very poetic," Charlotte insisted. "I still remember some Shakespeare. I think. Here, allow me, fair maiden, to seduce you with my limited literature knowledge."

"That's not necessary - "

"'I can reveal to you that I wished to die," Charlotte raised her voice in a mock attempt at dramatic reading, to which Molly giggled, "For with much weeping she left me/ Saying: 'Sappho - what suffering is ours!/ For it is against my will that I leave you.'/In answer, I said: 'Go happily remembering me/ For you know what we shared and persued - If not, I wish you to see again our - something or other - the many braids of rose and violet you...made? Around yourself at my side - '"

"I don't think this is Shakespeare," Molly was giggling - "

"'- And the many garlands of flowers with which you adorned your soft neck  
With royal oils from - flowers? - and on soft beds fulfilled your longing...' I'm sure there is more but I forgot."

"Impressive, but still not Shakespeare." Molly smiled, her heart beating rapidly in her chest, because, Jesus, that was adorable.

"Really? How d'you know?" Charlotte frowned.

"For one, the person addressed 'Sappho'."

"Oh." Charlotte laughed, "Of course my only memorised bit of poetry is Sappho. You probably think I'm stupid."

"No, it was - very good." Molly looked down at the ground. "Very much successful."

"Successful?" 

Molly glanced up, eyes soft and helpless as she looked up into the detective's eyes, who were narrowed and shining with amusement. Molly caught sight of something white and green hanging off the door frame. 

"Mistletoe."

"What?" Charlotte glanced up at the parasite (which is what it technically was, as Molly's extensive knowledge of biology reminded her). "Oh yeah. I forgot I put that there. Got some aallllll over the flat. Just in case." 

"In case..?"

"In case there's a pretty girl I have my eye on and has fallen for my seduction methods."

"Oh," blood rushed to Molly's cheeks for what seemed like the hundredth time since meeting Charlotte. "So are you frequently in the habit of reciting gay poetry under the mistletoe?"

"Oh, yes. So what do you say, Molly Hooper?" The detective carefully traced a finger over Molly's jawline, stopping to gently stroke her bottom lip with her thumb, and Molly physically shivered. "Are you going to succumb to my oh-so-sexy inability to remember poets and over-used romantic festive plant-parasites I hang around the flat?"

Molly laughed. "I think I just might," and the distance between their lips closed.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers:  
> 1\. This was written before season 4 aired and with very little knowledge on Hopkins' character  
> 2\. I have no idea if 57 Irving Street is a real address or, if it is, what the flats are like  
> 3\. Between Christmas preparation and revision for my mock exams in January (just as season 4 is airing, like, how selfish of my school is that?!) I haven't spent as much time writing and proof reading this as normal, so please feel free to point out mistakes, be it grammar, spelling or plot-wise.
> 
> Also, just comment in general. I love reading feedback. Is it good? Should I add more parts and continue the story? Is Molly's characterisation completely wrong and an insult to Louise Brealey? Let me know!


End file.
